


Nothing Like That

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Purple Prose, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 19:57:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12895590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: It wasn’t long before they found their way—Charlie to his back, Meyer above him, and nothing but bare skin between them. Their lips were desperate, Meyer’s on Charlie’s, teeth against flesh, the restraint evaporating to a desire that was as sweet as it was inescapable. Limbs entwined, until it was impossible to tell what belonged to whom. Though, of course, the obvious answer—curled deep into a conscious mind, tucked away beneath a rush of want and need and pure bliss—was that it no longer mattered. And maybe it would never matter again.First time. ABO!verse, but all ABO references are vague and in a "if you didn't know it was there, you'd think it was just very descriptive sex that keeps mentioning smell for some reason" way





	Nothing Like That

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this back in august when @crimsonxflowers and I were spitballing an ABO verse. the ABO references are intentionally vague because I was initially going to publish this without telling anyone that it was ABO, but now there's [already a fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12415563) published in this verse so I figure there's no use in hiding it :p

They were tangled, a desperate heady rush filling his mind since that first dark-eyed look, the first touch of his fingers running through curls, sliding down the back of his neck. Meyer was tentative, that first touch, and it was nothing like anybody else—anyone who was certain, who was definitive in every movement, who _knew_ and Charlie could only follow. 

But Meyer wasn’t certain. His fingers twitched as they skated behind Charlie’s ear, delicate as they brushed the bob in the center of his throat. Charlie swallowed a moan, licking his lips as he raised his chin, exposing more to Meyer’s touch. 

Meyer was tentative, even though the assurance, the control, burned surely behind his dark eyes. Charlie could see it, could feel it radiating down the back of his spine, as sure as he felt the breeze or the night or the summer sun. He could feel that pull throughout his body and he could smell it, see it, almost taste it on the air—and still Meyer held back. He didn’t have to. He wasn’t supposed to, as far as Charlie’d ever known, but he did. 

He could feel the restraint faltering, threatening to give way to the want that rolled off Meyer in waves. Charlie tilted his head, letting Meyer’s touch explore, his own pulse quickening beneath the rough pads of his gentle fingers. He looked into his eyes—wide, dark, deep—and the room disappeared. 

The thud of Charlie’s knees hitting the floor echoed dimly in the back of his humid mind. Meyer moaned, threaded fingers through Charlie’s hair, and there was no other sound he wanted to hear, no other sensation, no other taste. 

It wasn’t long before they found their way—Charlie to his back, Meyer above him, and nothing but bare skin between them. Their lips were desperate, Meyer’s on Charlie’s, teeth against flesh, the restraint evaporating to a desire that was as sweet as it was inescapable. Limbs entwined, until it was impossible to tell what belonged to whom. Though, of course, the obvious answer—curled deep into a conscious mind, tucked away beneath a rush of want and need and pure bliss—was that it no longer mattered. And maybe it would never matter again. 

There’d been others before. Charlie gazed up at him with heavy lids. Meyer was raised above him on strong arms, dark eyes piercing and wanting and searching. Charlie raised his hips in invitation. 

There’d been others who exuded the same certainty, the same pull that was inevitable as moth to a flame. Charlie kissed his collarbone, he kissed his chest, he kissed and he kissed, and even as he filled with need to lie back and to _feel_ him, he kissed. Meyer’s chest rumbled with a moan, their hips sliding together. He kissed. Adoration. 

There’d been others who filled Charlie with a kind of natural desperation—a desperation to be had, but also to prove. A desperate, desperate begging, an endless supplication and appellation, as the sufficiency of his demonstration was not his to decide, only his to give and to wait and to _prove_. 

He kissed across the planes of Meyer’s chest, and there was no fear. No asking, no begging, no appealing. There was only showing him—what was right, what was inevitable, what _was_. The scent from his skin rushed through his mind, dizzying, clouding everything else but the sensation. It was hard to say what was stronger—how much he wanted Meyer or how much he wanted to _show him_ that he did. 

It was a heady rush, a fog, every muscle in his body pulled towards a beacon. But while others burned like a flame that would scorch whatever they pulled in, Meyer glowed like a light on the shore, guiding him, drawing him towards safe harbor. 

Or perhaps it was the other way around. Hands on his thighs, pushing them apart, Charlie’s legs widening with eager want, ankles hooking and digging and urging. 

It felt right. It felt right to ask with a moan, with a needy kiss. It felt right to have. Meyer entered him with a shuddering thrust; he gasped. 

There was—Charlie knew, immediately—a difference between being filled and being complete. 

If he could have, he might have begged and pleaded. Cried out, urging Meyer to fuck him harder, deeper, to claim him. Instead he moaned, head tossed back, neck exposed to Meyer’s lips—Meyer’s teeth—his pounding pulse offered to him. An instinct. Language was gone, leaving only Meyer’s scent, encompassing him, Meyer’s lips, tasting him, Meyer’s cock, filling him. 

He’d been fucked before and his body had cried out in desperate longing for it. But he could no longer tell his body from his being, and everything— _everything_ —made sense. The inevitable, the sensation, all of it blurred together, as though it were more than just his body burning for Meyer, but his mind anchored to him in security, in perfect fit, more than in restraint. 

He arched into every thrust, into the unbreakable fullness, every muscle twitching and jerking beyond his control. There was nothing left in all the world to do _except_ to feel, to moan, to give—until the heat crested, warmth erupting between his legs and across his stomach, a cataclysm shaking down his spine as he cried out. 

He was still quivering as Meyer withdrew. 

Meyer said something, but it was too far away. The fog lingered in his mind, though it wasn’t the same desperate, needy fog, but like sleep, ebbing through his mind and draining everything away. Or maybe that was just the feeling of emptiness without Meyer. 

Charlie raised a weary, heavy arm to wipe the sweat that slicked across his brow, though found he had neither the energy nor the inclination to wipe anything away, and left it lying heavy across his eyes. The room smelled of Meyer. He was certain his own aromas were mingled in, but to his mind, there was nothing but Meyer. The smell of him clung to the air, to Charlie’s own skin, and he never wanted to be filled with anything else ever again. 

“Are you—?” Meyer’s voice broke before he could finish the question, a warm hand gentle on Charlie’s chest. He rolled immediately towards him, curling onto his side, pulled into the warmth of Meyer’s body. 

“Mm?” Charlie didn’t know what he was answering—nor what question had been asked, but somehow it was the best answer he could give. “Yeah,” he said, finding his voice, albeit groggy and dry. He licked his lips again and they tasted of Meyer. “I’m swell. You?” 

He felt more than he heard the scratchy laugh from Meyer’s throat. “Yes. Very.” Meyer’s arms were around him and Charlie nestled his head into the crook of his neck, breathing. His consciousness seemed to rock, pulled between sleep and waking, between Meyer and himself. 

“Is it… usually like that?” Meyer asked, after what might have been hours. The details of the world seemed distant, petty, the passage of time as unimportant as any triviality. 

“No,” Charlie told him. “Nothin’s ever been like that.” 


End file.
